Snowflakes
by silmelinde
Summary: A simple wish for a family prompts Erulien to undertake a journey to the Grey Havens. However, the roads we travel don't always lead us directly to our destination. Elrond/OFC.
1. The Road West

Disclaimer: The One Ring isn't mine, neither is LotR, even if sometimes I call it 'my precious.'

What prompted me to write was a stray thought that I have a handful of stories posted around here for some of my fandoms, but none for LotR, although it's the first fandom that drew me into it deeply enough to create something based on it. Thus, to correct the oversight, here is a fic with one of my favourite characters.

This is Third Age. About one hundred years before Aragorn's birth.

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**The Road West: 1**

It was past their afternoon meal as the shadows began to lengthen when a group of merchants, holding a steady course along the Old Forest Road, heard a low howl. Still distant, it crept through the land with an eerie intensity of a lonely hunter whose life held no meaning without the prey. This call into the wilderness alarmed living creatures for it meant that the beast had found a trail, vague and snowed in, but one that contained hope for blood.

"Is this a wolf call?"

A small hand emerged from a pile of blankets inside one of the roofed sleighs to latch onto the adult. Erulien secured a bowl, in which she had been grinding minerals with dried plants into a warming paste, between the furs and her hip before gently covering the trembling hand with her own.

"It is," she confessed steadily like it was something ordinary, something that needn't be feared. "Have you heard such howls before?"

The eight year old wrinkled her forehead, attempting to arrange recollections and emotions, which was no small matter when instincts urged monsters to lurk behind the passing snowdrifts. "Yes, when I travelled with my father. Long time ago, maybe two or even three years. My father is not afraid of wild animals because he knows how to chase them away. He is always so strong. But…" she looked sadly at the man lying prone beneath the blankets. Tightly closed eyes and ragged breathing gave away an ill state in which he could not protect them anymore.

"Your father will get better." Erulien hugged the girl closer. "Meanwhile, we have Garan and Rohan. They won't let anything bad happen to us."

Black eyes scrutinised the adult, deciding whether to accept reassurances. Right outside, the sleigh blades swished across the land, following the hoof beat of the hefty horses. A mild gust of wind tugged at the flaps. Its appearance carried a word that the weather was soon to change. Erulien heard it, securing the child beside her.

At last, the trust they've been building for the past two weeks won and Evalyn nodded. "You will make him better," she implored.

"Have faith. I've been healing people at least for one thousand years," Erulien smiled. "But, your father will get well sooner only with your help. I believe we can depend on you."

"I'll help," Evalyn promised. She shifted into a more comfortable position, restless to perform some task that would help in making her father well again.

The mortar was still warm as Erulien passed it to the girl. "Secure the bowl like this." She put Evalyn's hands into the right positions and held her hands over the smaller ones to teach proper movements. The paste swirled sluggishly under the guided ministrations. "We don't want any lumps in the mixture," the elf explained.

Evalyn became quickly immersed in the procedure, wrinkling her nose as she dealt with those pesky lumps. None were to slip past her vigilance. She picked up the skills fast. Most secondborn did; perhaps, because their lives flew by in a flurry, almost as fast as the snowflakes that waltzed down from the winter clouds.

"I need you to work on this paste while I get something from my saddle bag. I will return soon," Erulien added as the child tensed, unwilling to lose a comforting presence. "Can I trust you to stay here and take care of your father?"

The nod was an uncertain one, but honest nonetheless. Accepting it as permission to go, Erulien hopped off the sleigh and moved to the side of the road, waiting for the middle of their group to ride past. Natural blessings of the firstborn kept her on top of the massive snowdrifts where her companions would have fallen through up to their waists. Her attention was on two men who rode side by side, discussing something in muted voices.

Garan was a burly man in the late forties who shouldered over thirty years of trading experience. Even since he joined a passing caravan at the age of fourteen, he had gone through all difficulties of the craft. Hardship taught him how to protect his wares from the packs of robbers and how to keep his people safe from the wild beasts. His mind was sharp and the moderate signs of grey in his beard matched the grey steel of the sword, sheathed reliably by his side until skills of a seasoned fighter were called upon by necessity. He secured leadership in the group through trust, including from the man beside him.

Rohan was broad in the shoulders like any respectable mercenary and towered a head above his employer. Greatly surpassing the other in strength, he listened intently to his fifteen years senior like a student. Seeing them together, intensified the elf's ill premonition. Evalyn's doubt when she asked about the wolves had not been unfounded. There was a shadow following them, more dangerous than a common beast.

Garan stopped as Erulien put her hand on his mount's withers when the pair aligned beside her. There was no room for Rohan to stop as well, thus he rode past. From the elevated position, Erulien didn't need to raise her head high up, which allowed a quiet exchange.

"Those were no wolves we heard."

"Rohan and I thought as much."

The word 'wargs' drifted between them unspoken. The shadows began to dim as the sky lost its blue vibrancy. Erulien adjusted her footing on the slippery surface. Garan still waited for her ideas, but she had none. The warning in itself had been meant to be helpful. There was a sting of awareness that she shouldn't have interrupted the pair while they were discussing the defensive strategy.

"I will leaf through my map for a safer location," Erulien said, motioning for him to proceed.

"Thank you for looking out for the well-being of this group."

There was no rush or panic, just a strong sense of purpose, as Garan adjusted a thick, leather glove to grip the reigns tighter and motioned his horse to the head of the column. Of course he knew how to defend this group. He and Rohan had already figured out the danger. Just because she was three thousand years old, didn't mean she knew better. It was mystifying how men could obtain greater wisdom by the age of fifty than some elves after millennia, but she had to put trust in Garan to form a defensive strategy without getting in his way. A healer knew far too little about fighting.

Erulien straightened her shoulders to shake off the doubts. The men were going to do their jobs and she had to do hers. The snow was crisp as she jumped down and exchanged greetings with a middle-aged woman who rode an elegant mare. Slimmer and light on foot, though not as enduring, this steed was much different from the rest of the caravan's horses.

"She missed you," the woman chuckled as the horse neighed softly at the sight of her owner.

"Is she behaving?" Erulien asked. Velvety muzzle, turned towards her, demanded to be petted. Though, her mount had reached an understanding with the edain woman, Cloud was deeply attached to her elven owner.

Galina's dark eyes, surrounded by emerging web of wrinkles, shone with clarity and intelligence. "Oh, she has gotten used to me riding her, but I could have sworn a few hours ago she was slyly eyeing one of the snowdrifts with an interest of depositing the rider into it."

"You be good to Garan's wife. They're the ones providing our passage you know," Erulien chided gently as she stroked proudly bent neck.

Cloud snorted. She was good. Erulien wished she could shortly indulge in jogging beside the pair and exchange playful banter. Except, Evalyn was waiting, protected only by duty of holding onto the bowl. Real monsters were not the healer's expertise, but at least the imaginary ones could receive a good scolding from her.

"I need a map from my saddle bag and a dark-green roll hidden all the way at the bottom," she said to Galina.

As the woman searched for the items, Erulien looked over her shoulder past the last sleigh. Behind the caravan stretched a flat landscape all the way to the silver curvature of the river bound in ice. Between them lay an unshielded bareness: just a few stubby hills and scant trees with their branches stretched up in a frozen prayer. There were no beasts wandering between them. Their group crossed tracks with no one.

Sharp, elven eyes strained to see past the river all the way to the line of Greenwood the Great where the caravan had left a trail two days ago. It was hard to call it so these days, even for Silvan to whom it meant a beloved home. Mirkwood it became as the ancient evil stirred beneath the moss, snaked between the roots, rotting great trees from their source of life, and foul wind went as a ghost between the bushes and flowers, corrupting all touched by its breath. The roads no longer were safe even for warriors. Beasts, unseen since the Last Alliance, crept through the land. She could imagine them stumbling onto a human trail and hearing an instinctive whisper from the dark. At last – a chance to strike at the weakened link, separated in the wilderness.

"I found them."

Erulien nearly jumped out of her skin. She blinked. There was nothing behind them. She accepted the items from Galina and excused herself. The wind carried low clouds from the east. Small puffs of breath escaped as she laboured to catch up to her sleigh. There was no evident rush, but the caravan's pace increased as soon as Garan rejoined the front of the column.

Erulien secured the flap behind her tighter than necessary, glad for Evalyn's presence as much as the child found comfort in her elven friend.

"The mixture is perfect now," Erulien praised the girl without unneeded flattery before the other asked why she had to leave. Evalyn had done a very fair job of moulding the substance into a paste ready for use. "We're going to apply it to his upper chest," the healer explained. She folded a long cloth in half before smearing half a finger thick layer onto one side. Evalyn was trusted to hold on to the cloth, least in the narrow space someone stuck a knee or an elbow into the paste by accident, while the healer unbuckled a leather strap across his shoulder, and unbound the heavy coat and shirt. Together, they prompted up the patient and secured the bandage.

Atamir regained awareness during the jostling and tried to rise up on his elbow. Her arms were around him and his breath was hot on her cheek. "You're stronger than you look," he told her quietly.

Erulien was saved from an awkward reply by Evalyn's joyful yelp. Like a tiny whirlwind, she took possession of her father, securing the blankets around him. Galina called Garan a bigheaded snow-pig in the morning and Cloud licked away Dalik's stew while he was looking the other way. Atamir had to be informed about everything he had slept through.

Erulien curled up with the map on the other end of the sleigh at times suppressing a smile at the bits of conversation. The caravan travelled along the west bank of the Great River of Wilderland. The narrow strip of land between it and the Misty Mountains was flat, offering very few defensive positions, all too far from their course. If any advantage was to be gained, it was at the feet of the mountains only a couple of hours away. Even on the map they stood out secretive and majestic, presenting a formidable barrier to a fabled city of Imladris lounged behind their eastern slopes. Sadly, Erulien hadn't the knowledge of the hidden passages controlled by the Noldo. Maybe she was just a little bit lonely, being the only elf in the group. Imagination created a surge of warmth where her finger touched the spot marking the city. Giving up her entire collection of the special healing herbs just to walk among kin, hearing their melodious chant in the winter and prayers to Elbereth would have been a small price. But, it was faulty to search for those unreachable. Garan wanted to know only about the real possibilities.

A glance stolen at Evalyn showed how much the girl was occupied, thus the elf slipped outside to inform the leader of her findings. Unconsciously, Erulien pulled the coat closer to her body as if to ward off the dangers of the outer world. The cold may not have affected the elves as much as men, but the brittle air and stinging gusts of wind brought a sense of discomfort. One of the women called out to the head of the group, seeing Erulien struggling to catch up. Garan motioned his steed to a standstill and then his broad hand lifted the lithe figure into the saddle behind him.

Erulien wrapped her arms around his waist. She was tempted to rise higher to speak into Garan's ear. "We'll be coming to the crossroads soon. One road continues south and the other leads west towards the mountains. It should be safer to go west, even if it adds to our journey."

"I thought about cutting towards the mountains regardless of the terrain," Garan conceded. "The wargs have too much advantage out in the open. Has your map provided a specific place where we can set camp overnight?"

"Not exactly."

Erulien hesitated to tell him about the city. Garan's previous dealings with her kind were not encouraging. King Thranduil never supported an open door policy, keeping old grudges against elven kin and far too proud to consider other races as equals. Weary relationship evolved into near hostility over the past decade. The encroaching corruption of the Greenwood realm caused great suspicion of any outsiders who could have brought more harm. Being chased away at an arrow point by armed elves from the woodland areas that were secured by Silvan, hardly inspired trust in edain. Given the experience, she doubted Garan would be excited by the prospect of meeting more elves, even if they were Noldo. He, however, had read into her silence and didn't allow her to drop the subject.

"Erulien, I must know anything that may concern this caravan."

The healer sighed. Garan accepted her after all. A few weeks on the road had to amount to some trust. "There's no threat," she said with a far greater confidence than she felt. "I believe we may be within outer boundaries of an elven city, known as Rivendell by your kin. We may encounter their patrol or rather they will see us coming and follow until they understand our intentions. I could ask for a sanctuary on our behalf should they choose to speak with us." Many years had passed since her last visit to Imladris when she was an apprentice who followed her teacher, carrying a massive book for reference in the crook of her arm. Living in Mirkwood, all she had were the news from afar and rumours that the valley's ruler welcomed men into his realm.

"I appreciate that you're willing to serve as intermediary between our people, but I don't believe it wise to deviate too far from our route. We should reach Greendale village in four days where we will replenish supplies and place our ill in a warm home. Whereas to solve the immediate problems, we must find refuge in the mountains where we can build fire and set camp overnight."

"What if someone is injured when those wargs attack? I wouldn't dismiss possible help."

"I do not have the luxury to dwell on imaginary scenarios."

Garan's voice was hard. A first snowflake spiralled down from the clouds onto his shoulder, which in several hours was to be covered by a thick mantle of snow. He could not put faith in a city hidden somewhere on the other side of the mountains nor in armed sentinels that appeared out of thin air whose opinion about men was very much a mystery. Garan knew little about such people, but he did know that whenever someone bothered to hide their home, they most assuredly wanted no visitors. She had to accept that he bore responsibility for the consequences of that final decision.

"You have my support no matter what," she claimed softly enough to keep a challenge out of their conversation. "But, allow me to dwell on those better scenarios for the two of us."

"I'll think about it if they will include me by the fire with a large mug of warm ale and a roasted lamb leg."

"It's a deal."

They chuckled, mostly to end the argument without an upset, even though neither felt like laughing. Another howl came from the east, closer and surer. This time it found support that washed over the land with malevolence from the south.

Erulien didn't look back. She rose up, placing her hands on Garan's shoulders, in search for the way west. It was there, twisted around an elevation that stood just a notch above the snowdrifts. "Head that way," she called, thinking about the mountains the caravan was turning towards and the beasts that were coming with the storm.


	2. Caught by the Storm

Hello everyone,

The next chapter is up, along with a few answers. I promise to provide more background as the story continues. Thank you for showing that my story caught your interest. I'm very glad to see the reviews and follows. As banal as it may sound, good words truly inspire writing and creative ideas. I hope the next chapter will be interesting.

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**Caught by the Storm: 2**

There was no more sun. It drifted beyond the horizon, leaving a faint afterglow among clouds, which soon was to disappear completely as the night took reign of the land. The caravan's pace, maintained nearly for five hours, hadn't slowed on the account of worsening visibility and changing terrain. Garan pushed his men past the usual hour when the group set camp for the night. No more howls disturbed their flight, but all living creatures were gifted with intuition. Temporary peace meant to lull the caravan into a false sense of safety. Meanwhile, the pursuers got closer and closer. Massive paws laboured unstoppably as the beasts covered the land in the giant leaps, faster than galloping horses, following an instinctive call – Kill them all, KILL.

"You will fail. We'll be ready."

Erulien snapped out of a sleepy trance. Realising that these words had escaped unintentionally, she threw a wary glance at her companions. Evalyn was asleep, curled up by her father's side. She held onto his arm tight like she wanted to reaffirm a deep bond between them that was powerful enough to thwart death.

Full weight of the responsibility to prevent that illusion from shattering, settled heavily in her heart. The elf listened to their breathing, fortunately undisturbed by her outburst, and then reached for the dark-green roll. Inside it, lay hidden an item somewhat dulled by time. It was a blade, no longer than a few inches, equipped with a handle that allowed a comfortable grip. The sheath made of flexible leather provided a safe enough storage. However, Erulien never liked weapons and kept this one wrapped away, even if it wasn't a real fighting knife. The healers used such tools on the battlefield. They cut through the cloth worn by the wounded to access the injuries. This knife hadn't been touched in ten years. Today, she had the urge to have it close.

The sleigh came to a halt. In brittle silence, large snowflakes pelted against the tightly stretched roof. There were a lot of them now as Erulien stepped outside, alone and most vulnerable. Dim silhouettes were mystical behind their dancing patterns and landscape objects appeared to come to life. The caravan was aligned by the mountainside, protected from the north by a cliff that gradually rose in height. The unroofed sleigh that used to be ahead of the one the healer had travelled on was set perpendicular to the road, serving as cover for a bowman. The rest of the men, however, assumed a defensive position at the back. Erulien stealthily moved towards them.

Snow crunched under their heavy winter boots. Horses snorted and pawned the ground nervously. Someone grabbed the healer's arm tight and pulled her behind the defensive line. From there, Erulien peered into the darkness, attempting to discern the shadows that lurked between the snowdrifts, feigning attacks and then disappearing behind the landscape. They were ugly hunchbacks with massive bodies and disproportionately large heads. Three pairs of orange eyes dully glowed with malevolence seven feet above the ground. The wargs made unrushed semi-circles around the men, gradually tightening the ring.

"Don't let them draw you out," Garan ordered.

The wargs growled in response to the human voice. The sound brimmed with such hate that Erulien shuddered and huddled safer behind their cover, but she was unable to look away as the beasts drew closer, setting men's nerves on the edge. An arrow hissed though the air only to be caught between massive jaws and snapped like a twig. The warg bared all teeth as if mocking that sorry attempt and charged head on. It side-jumped forward and left to avoid two more arrows, aiming to break the line with one more leap, but Rohan was ready for it. His two-handed broadsword cut the air dangerously, foiling the charge.

Instantaneous attack on the right caused greater damage where two beasts flanked the defenders. One of the men fell with a cry, pressed into the ground by the warg's front paws on his chest. The beast was robbed of a killing move by Garan driving his sword into its side. He hadn't hit any vital organs. Nonetheless, the stab penetrated thick fur and sunk deep into flesh. The warg swirled about, aiming to rip a chunk out of his side at close quarters. Delek blocked the assault with his shield, sacrificing the defensive weapon. An inch thick oak cracked, torn from his arm by the warg and tossed aside. Blood sputtered from a forceful pull as Garan freed his sword, nearly paying with his life for losing his balance; only the aid of his comrades who covered the brief fallback saved him from being torn apart. The wargs were done playing the retreating game. They pressed the attack, dragging men into a despondent fight where neither side was willing to give up ground.

The fallen man hadn't moved as the battle raged around him. Someone had to get him before he was trampled to death. Why did it have to be her? Erulien's teeth chattered. She wasn't a field healer. Most of her life she lived and worked at the city, protected by walls. Legs didn't support her, so she crawled towards the fight, too terrified to look anywhere other then at the injured man. She wanted to melt into the snow, become small and invisible. Snarls and grunts of exertion came right above her head. Thick material of the man's cloak, encrusted by frost, was nearly wooden and her fingers were just as an inflexible. Desperately, Erulien sought grip, ultimately failing to drag the man back even a step.

"Move."

Slow to respond, the elf was pushed out of the way by Galina who grabbed their companion under the armpits and dragged him backwards. The healer followed closely, in no need of encouragement to retreat once knife-long teeth snapped right behind her. The caravan bag, smartly packed with the healing supplies, was pressed into her hands as soon as they moved the man securely out of the way. Galina picked up a sword, not taking part in immediate battle, to be prepared in case the wargs broke through the line. Assisted by one of the women, Erulien focused on stopping the flow of blood. It gushed liberally from the ripped wound that stretched all the way from his hair line to the chin. Here she was in control, but the cries of the fiercest fight reached her all the same.

Demented, the wargs twirled about, ripping chucks of the frozen snow out of the ground with sharp turns. They evaded plentiful, yet unskilful blows and waited for men to make a mistake. Someone would stumble sooner or later; then, they would rip off their head in one move. Even much outnumbered, the beasts had to be the masters of this situation. This group of men was courageous and well organised, but they were merely traders. Aside from Garan and Rohan, none had the benefit of the warrior training. Should they have fallen, the wargs would have easily torn everyone apart. Their remnants would not have been found until the spring.

A terrified shriek broke the healer's concentration. Recognising the voice, Erulien dropped half-tied bandages, forced to look up to the head of the column that had been forgotten in battle. The bowman raised no alarm so fast came an attack that toppled the barricade and trapped him beneath. An unfortunate horse that got in the way was beating on the ground in the final convulsions with a broken neck. The dying animal was of no interest to another warg that assaulted them. The beast turned over the sleigh, sensing fear and humans trapped inside. It loomed over it, ripping apart the roof and grunting in pleasure of a kill as if it knew the pitiful creatures inside had nowhere to go.

Erulien didn't have children, but the sight of the turned over sleigh with a little girl huddling under and screaming in fear invoked suffocating rage. This was Evalyn who read a tattered book of edain fairy tales, curled up on her lap, and whom the healer urged to drink a spoonful of yucky fish oil for health when her father fell ill. In a flash of fury, Erulien reached the warg faster than a flying arrow and buried her knife to the hilt in the only vulnerable spot – the eye.

The warg jumped three feet into the air. One of its paws randomly caught Erulien on the chest, knocking her several paces back where she landed hard on her back. Her fingers contracted around a fistful of snow in an effort to draw a shuddering breath, while the creature made several wild leaps, howling in pain and chaotically smiting all in its way until all its rage turned on the offender.

Driven by the self-preservation alone, Erulien managed to get onto her arms and knees, and desperately lunged underneath the sleigh that was loaded with the caravan's wares. The rage was gone, replaced by a blinding fear. She slid to the other side and came crashing into the rocky wall.

Half-blinded, the warg followed the hated creature that wrought such pain. It smashed chest first into an obstacle between them, collapsing a pile of rugs and crates, tearing and trampling all within reach.

Something crashed into the elf's shoulder, heavily enough to bring her down to her knees once more. The impact was hardly noticed, in the face of being trapped between the wall and the maddened beast. A crack in the wall, spiralling up like a black snake, caught her attention. Desperation gave strength to squeeze inside like a mouse that sought refuge from a cat in a mouse trap. The crack was shallow. Several steps in, Erulien encountered a wall. Pressing against the rough surface felt like being embraced by the icy hands of the lost souls who had died in the mountains.

Stuck shoulder deep in the narrow passage, the warg panted and growled. The knife handle protruded from its eye socket like a downturned grin. Rotten stench of dead horse came from its breath. Its paws ground holes in the ice, every muscle strained to reach the trapped creature. Maddening effort tore its sides to blood, leaving damp clumps of fur on the rocky surface. Suddenly, it raised hairy muzzle towards the sky. An unearthly howl tore through the narrow passage upwards into the mountains where the echo was lost among the ridges. Malevolent light dimmed in its eyes and the warg fell dead.

Erulien regarded the beast in shock. What foolery was this? She must have lost her mind. Aside from the rapid beating of her heart, the elf heard a subtle melody like that of the silver bells ringing.

An armed figure appeared at the entrance. As the stranger spoke reassuring words, Erulien grew sure it was no one from their caravan. "The threat is gone, friend. It is safe to come out." The voice was melodious like that of a crystal stream. Westron intonations were nearly flawless and now they held concern after receiving no answer. "Are you injured?" The stranger moved towards her with great agility, although his armour scraped against the rocks. "Come with me," he asked once more. His face was shadowed, but she caught a glimpse of gold hair. His hand, stretched towards her, emanated soft light.

Slowly, Erulien entrusted her hand to him and followed, but dug her heels in after taking two steps. "I'm afraid of it!" she said desperately; no matter how foolish that seemed. In order to leave the cave, they had to walk over the dead warg. An avalanche had to come down before she agreed to step on the beast, while she still wasn't perfectly convinced that the warg wasn't playing some twisted game and wouldn't bite her leg off. She was going to tell this armed stranger so, no matter what. However, he didn't argue nor grow frustrated. The warrior wrapped a strong arm around her waist and before Erulien could yelp took her outside where he set her down effortlessly.

It was a mistake to throw an instinctive look back at the warg because on the ground lay undeniable proof of its death. Its body was severed in half by a mighty blow. Nauseated by all the bloodshed, Erulien fled from her saviour. Behind a snowdrift, she dropped on her knees and emptied scant content of her stomach. She remained crouched until some ability to think rationally returned and she was able to shake off a layer of snow that gathered on her shoulders and face the surroundings.

The road bustled with activity. Yellow circles of scattered lantern light moved about in complicated patterns. Beyond her sight, Galina called out to Evalyn. A surge of relief washed over the healer as the child responded. Elven speech mixed into the chorus of voices, but only in brief exchanges, much like the military commands. Two distinct groups, united after a fight with a common enemy, worked together side by side, but did not mingle. The elves were clearing away remnants of the battle, prudently allowing the edain to put their caravan back on track without unasked interference.

The elves! The firstborn song that linked all their souls to creator called out to her. The patrol must have heard the warg howls and came to defend their borders. A strong gust of wind threw a handful of snow into her face, momentarily blurring the world. Erulien rushed to the center of the activity, nimbly moving around people and jumping over the obstacles. Where was Garan? No doubt he was grateful for the assistance, but how would he receive her kin? There was an atmosphere of caution present between the parties. Please trust them, Erulien implored silently, at last coming across the man.

Garan was in deep conversation with the tall warrior who saved her earlier. Concerned frown marred the man's face and his arms were defensively set across his chest. The elf veiled his emotions. He was a picture of intensity, due to the difficult situation rather than an attempt to intimidate.

"I encourage your caravan to follow us to Imladris. I cannot spare my men to lead you to a safer ground where you can wait out the storm because the slightest delay may trap us on this side of the mountains. The weather will grow worse over night and the passage will close."

The edain hesitated. His group had to cross the mountains regardless to continue their journey west, but he was very much aware that the caravan may become trapped in the elven city or from there travel an unknown route.

Any moment he could have refused the passage and then the groups would part ways. She couldn't, she didn't want that to happen so soon. "Garan, I beg you to trust them," Erulien interfered. "We have wounded. Atamir is badly ill. It's better to lose your way than to lose your men!"

"I rather lose neither."

The look Garan directed at her was very much admonishing. It wasn't the place of an outsider who joined his caravan less than a month ago to interfere in vital decisions. Yet, Erulien believed in his natural ability to hear others out fairly as he addressed the warrior.

"However, given the circumstances, I thank the Imladris Guard again for coming to our aid and ask them to take on the additional responsibility of leading us through the passage, should you be willing to give us permission to enter your city."

The warrior inclined his head politely. "Lord Elrond welcomes brave men of good conscience to his valley." A smile touched the corners of his mouth that appeared to be far more natural for him than maintaining a grim façade, "Especially when they have such a passionate advocate."

"The advocate has reminded me of my duties and I must return the favour," Garan informed them strictly.

Erulien blushed, but didn't retreat just yet. "I want all wounded placed at the center of the caravan, close to each other," she requested before hurrying away. She thought she heard a suppressed chuckle, but perhaps it was just another gust of the increasingly powerful wind. A full night march awaited them at the mountains. She prayed for the strength for them all to endure it.


	3. Through the Mountains

I hope everyone is having a lot of fun with the Christmas preparations. I've intended this update a few days earlier, but I had to do much dreaded xmas house cleaning and presents shopping.

I would like to thank Cleelake for catching some errors that ran amok in ch1 and 2. The pesky things have been cast into banishment and we proceed onwards with the story.

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**Through the Mountains: 3**

Faster, then slower and flying into the distance again only to dissipate in a maddening twirl, the flurries rolled over the land, toyed with by the wind testing its power. Urged by their appearance, the caravan took off before Erulien handled the worst injuries. In spite of her vehement protests, her patients were moved to the sleighs set up in the center upon her earlier request. There, the healer resumed work, biting inside of her cheek at the increasingly rough jolts as the road gradually wound into the heart of the mountains. Wavering lanterns threw wandering patches of light on the roof and walls, but their fairy tale enchantment did little to aid work. The healing supplies rolled away and ducked underneath the covers as soon as they were laid down. 'Next time, I'm booking a passage with the eagles,' Erulien muttered as the top of her head collided with the roof. It didn't hurt. The winding passage had not been created to travel in comfort, but it hadn't been too ambitious to hope for doing the work on the ground rather than in midflight.

The bleak situation merited some disgruntled mutters. Working together in the cramped space was impossible. Thus, her helper and travel companion, Gertruda, was banished outside to set sprained wrists and care for those who suffered minor wounds during the battle. Erulien was sorry to lose a competent assistant who, given the time, could have become a good healer. At the age of seventeen, Gertruda was in the middle of her apprenticeship when Garan's caravan stopped at her village. One of the men suffered a broken arm in a hunting accident. Setting the injury, young woman was unaware that she bound their life together with every wrap of the bandages. Once the task was complete, her gaze rose to his and on the handsome, open face she read their future. In three days, Gertruda left home and never regretted that decision. Her initial occupation was useful during their travels, yet, she lacked in-depth knowledge that could have been provided by the teachers. Working together, Erulien noted that Gertruda's initial impulse to study healing had been right. She had the necessary compassion and strength of mind to cure others. She was the one the travel companions had turned to before the elleth joined them. Unfortunately, the woman lacked skills for Erulien to exchange improvised treatment ideas with her, solely needed now that her supplies have been lost.

The ones who sustained severe injuries were the bowman and Eonis. The bowman suffered a broken shoulder and cracked ribs. Gertruda was in the process of aligning the bones when Erulien reached them. The man was conscious, but only due to the ardent pain that grew worse with every wheezing breath. His widely opened eyes were abysmally dark and full of frightening intensity.

Erulien ducked underneath a rug stretched above them to keep out the pelting snow and knelt by his side. "There are roots in my healing bag. Chewing them extracts the juice that dulls pain," she addressed Gertruda. "Have you seen it by any chance?"

The woman's shoulders hunched guiltily. "I'm so sorry. Your bag was packed in one of the crates destroyed by the warg. I tried to recover the scant bits, but the containers are broken and the herbs are mixed up. All of it is trampled into the snow."

"I'm the one who stored it there. I hoped someone may have taken it before everything was destroyed." Ironically, she had put the bag out of harms way, unwilling to risk Evalyn's curious fingers getting into the pouches or something getting lost without one secure storage place. "I suppose we'll have to try something else."

"I have soothing tea, but the flowers release necessary flavour only in the hot water," Gertruda offered without much hope that they had the time to set up a fire.

"Garan wants to leave," the elleth confirmed.

The bowman groaned. Gesturing for the woman to continue what she'd been doing, Erulien leaned above him. His skin was cold as she secured his face between her palms. "Look at me," the healer commanded. A chill travelled along her arms and towards the heart. There was something haunting in his tormented gaze, caught and held by her will as her voice wound a spell around them. "See your pain reflected in my eyes. Watch it grow distant. I will take it and store it away until you are strong enough to defeat it. Hear my voice that calls you to rest. You must rest to regain your strength. Rest and let the pain parish."

Entranced by the chant, which subtly turned to elvish, the man relaxed. His eyes slid shut as the spark of consciousness in them dimmed like the golden haze of a lantern lost in the snowy night. Drained and in truth spooked by the experience, Erulien folded her hands on her lap, waiting for the trembling to subside. No matter the training to remain impartial, at times the emotions and pain of the ones she healed were overwhelming. Gertruda was immersed deep in work, but there was more than concentration in her movement. Stiffly set shoulders and a bent neck attested to confusion and disquiet, being a witness to a few words that caused a man to forget pain and fear, and left with a nagging uncertainty whether such ability could be used for harm. Softly spoken, her words came barely distinguishable.

"I've grown to care about you during our journey. But, sometimes we men get a glimpse of the skills possessed by your kind that frighten us."

These words pursued Erulien more than the pain she had seen in the man's eyes long after they've been called upon to depart. There were things far worse than the creatures of darkness in the world – such as mistrust between the people of integrity that turned allies to war and brothers to betray each other. The evil was not terrifying because it was powerful; it was terrifying because it was dividing. Overcoming that was a far greater battle than the one the caravan waged by clinging onto the barely visible trail.

Monotonous howls of the northern wind shook the cliffs far above, assaulting the tops of the mountains. Its victories sent avalanches and cascades of rocks to tumble into abysses. Sometimes, the passage led the caravan into the open where vicious blasts of the snow-storm awaited around the corner, threatening to blow away anything unsecured into oblivion. The travellers hunched under the nature's rancour, trudging through the white cover, ankle and then knee deep. The horses were tired. They've been on the road since the morning and then followed a vigorous pace to escape the wargs. Dismounted to lighten the burden, men and elves called upon hidden reserves of their strength and pressed onward almost in the blind. The passage walls loomed above like they wanted to crush the travellers. Sometimes, the cliffs closed above them, coming lower until a mounted rider could not pass. But, at least the road became smoother, in places winding down the slope.

The reprieve from the shaking allowed Erulien to put together an improvised mixture to take down the swelling. The gash Eonis suffered across his face was growing infected and his fever was rising. Were it to spread so close to the brain, the man would have died in horrible pain. Applying the mixture, the healer was unable to stall a pang of regret about losing her healing supplies. Leaving her home, she had packed the recipes that took centuries to put together. There was an unyielding vulnerability without them. She still had the caravan's supplies to fall upon, but how would have the legendary Lord Glorfindel felt had he been offered a garden rake in place of his sword to fight the Balrog?

The flap was torn open unexpectedly, allowing an uninvited swarm of snowflakes inside. Gertruda's dark hair was completely white. "It's Atamir!" she rasped. "His fever has risen. I can't do anything about it!"

"Stay." Erulien pointed at Eonis. It was where Gertruda was needed the most.

The stinging whirlwind blinded her outside. Responding to the urgency of the call, Erulien dashed down the trail several dozen steps, too late recognising her mistake. The caravan travelled almost as fast. Shielding her face with the sleeve, she discerned the puffs of breath coming from a horse that was slowly gaining now that her initial impulse to run fast left Erulien breathless. The healer stumbled leftward until she reached the animal and grabbed an ice-coated rope that connected the horse to the sleigh ahead. Weary of loosing her footing and falling victim to the storm, Erulien advanced slowly, clinging onto the thin, guiding line for life, after she got a good sense of the caravan's pace. There were people nearby. Yet, the spinning curtain of snow isolated her from them. There was a sinister presence weaved into the storm. Full of menace, it wanted to tear her away from the others, enchant and force her to wander off the path. Come with me, it called. Bony, long fingers weaved into her hair.

"Elbereth!"

For one breath, the surrounding curtain parted. The elleth rushed forth and took cover inside the sleigh before the storm closed its ranks once more.

"Atamir?" Erulien called, simply in need of hearing her own voice to confirm this was real; that she was not dreaming, buried underneath the ice on the stony path to Rivendale.

Atamir couldn't have answered. The warg attack battered his shaky health as much as it did the sleigh. Gertrude must have undertaken an uneasy task of patching the torn roof and walls while the snow forced itself into every crack in handfuls. But, she hadn't been able to battle the fever, although a wide opened healer bag attested to her struggle.

The man gasped for breath. His throat was burning hot under the touch, yet in contrast his forehead was covered in cold sweat. He was not calling out to family, but his eyelids trembled like those of a man who recalled past events that had left an emotional imprint. Humans were so fragile. No one knew where their souls went after death. Maybe, he was at the brink of departing to a place preordained by Illuvatar.

What about his daughter? Vague fear that she may not be able to keep the promise to Evalyn crept up uninvited. Seeking refuge in work from this fear, the healer delicately went through every available ingredient, seeking a substitute for aloe. A compress of leaves could have taken down the swelling. Some pitiful healer she was without anything to heal the patients with! Improvised ointment seemed a poor substitute for someone this ill. Nonetheless, Erulien rubbed it onto her hands. She placed one hand on Atamir's chest and another onto his neck, whispering a chant to enhance the effect. The melody weaved a light bridge between them and the shimmering bluish thread of her soul went across in search of his soul. In the distance shone golden light, still undimmed, although suffering. The bluish light extended around it to repair and strengthen the soul.

Then, she prayed to Elbereth. Heeding the call for aid, the kind face of her mentor, Master Feiniel, appeared before the healer. Ever vibrant and full of life, the memory of him was bittersweet just like anything which had once been loved now lost. A truly passionate healer could use their surroundings to turn nothing into a helpful substance, he reminded her often. Erulien sniffed critically. Salvaging bare cliffs for healing supplies did not appear to be a rewarding enterprise. She channelled the energy into another song, temporarily banishing fever from the sick body. It was a short lived measure that served more to exhaust her. Men tended to rely more on things of substance to make them better rather than on songs. Perhaps, one of the elves carried miruvor.

Erulien tucked the covers around Atamir, once more forced to brave the outside. The trail slanted downwards, hiding treacherous patches of ice underneath the snow. One of them awaited the healer. Before she could blink, Erulien found herself sliding down the trail on her behind until she crashed into someone's legs. The elf stumbled, but with an enviable nimbleness regained the balance and glanced down at the rare assailant who managed to catch him off guard in nine millennia. In the ruffled snowball, the warrior discerned elleth's general features. He pulled Erulien up by the scruff of her neck. Tacky snow filled her mouth the instance she opened it. Erulien sputtered. "Miruvor!" she yelled into his ear.

The blond shook his head, but didn't abandon her. "Hold on to Asfaloth!" he shouted, guiding her hands to grasp the horse and disappearing in the flurry. It was a powerful creature. The stallion held his head high up, in displeasure snorting at the gusts of wind. His ears remained perched up. His nostrils blew out puffs of smoke. Although Erulien supposedly was the one leading him, dim suspicion dwelled that the warrior had left the horse to look after her.

Looking at the proud animal reminded Erulien of her mare. Her heart shrunk into a tiny ball of ice. Where was her poor, little Cloud? Galina most likely had been too preoccupied to sooth her. The caravan line stretched far down the path and the elleth hadn't the faintest clue where exactly her horse had been placed. Cloud was very young. They've never went riding past the sentries who protected the lands surrounding Thranduil's city. The wargs and the snow storm were the first major trials in Cloud's life. Meanwhile, her owner wasn't near to see her trudge knee deep in the snow, trembling at the alarming humming of the cliffs above.

The warrior came back with a flask, which he pressed into her hands. Erulien thanked him, unsure whether he saw the curt nod, and hid the precious flask in her dress. Lacking strength to go up the trail, she kept balance by pressing against the cliff wall until the sleigh reached her.

Atamir was alive, much to her relief because leaving him for an instant she had felt that she may return too late. His pulse was irregular, beating either too fast or alarmingly disappearing as he coughed. "You must hang on," Erulien spoke to him, carefully urging the man to take small sips. "We will reach the city before sunrise. Rivendale is famous for healing achievements. My teacher, Master Feiniel, always spoke of that place with great warmth and perhaps with a bit of regret that Mirkwood lacks the same desire for knowledge. Many of our kin didn't like his words, but I always listened because he loved his home too much to diminish Silvan. He only sought ways to bring back prosperity to our woods."

She went silent. Speaking of her beloved teacher and home was too difficult, for with the loss of one she had also lost another. The magnificence of the ancient woods, the warm familiarity of the healing chambers full of scrolls and slightly bitter scent of herbs were still there, but no longer filled with substance. She didn't want Evalyn to be left with the same soul-emptying experience. And, thus, the healer remained by Atamir's side, holding his hand and singing until the mountains parted their mighty slopes. Ahead of the weary travelers rose the majestic walls of the Last Homely House.


	4. Predawn Premonitions

**Predawn Premonitions: 4**

It was a vivid dream the likes of which the Lord of Imladris learned to define as premonitions. She stood, isolated in the landscape cast in whites and dark-purple shadows of the mountains that rose like bearded giants with the hats of snow secured upon their brown brows. An elleth. Or rather, he saw a stranger covered in a modest cloak with her back turned to him. Yet, Elrond was sure she was his kin.

He aside, something else watched her, hidden among the peaks. Waiting. Skulking. It wanted something. Elrond looked around, but the muted slopes kept their secrets with a stoic silence. The presence was elusive as a shadow that went between the rocks - the one he felt, but could not see. The eerie presence was unwelcome, prompting him to seek it with an increasing urgency. Where was it? Close to the clouds, behind the caps of snow or down in the valley? At last, he noticed a faint flurry, creeping low along the landscape. No wind stirred to form it. From a twig towards a patch of ice, it glided behind the lonely figure.

"I see you!"

Vilya flared with a brilliant light and Elrond awoke with a start. The ring was cold and heavy on his finger; its stone dulled nearly to grey. The ambers in the hearth lay burned out. The storm howled outside. The falling snow caused a bewitched patterns made of pale light to dance on the curtain. Elrond pushed aside the blanket, resigned that sleep eluded him this night.

Deep in thought, he had been pacing in the Hall of Fire far past midnight, turning his head towards the heavy double-doors whenever he heard a screech of wind or a strange crunch of the snow outside. The storm hadn't brought back his sons or his friend. Lost in anger, Elladan and Elrohir still sought peace in hunting down the beasts. They must have been too far from home to return when heavy winter clouds loomed in the sky. With every passing hour that the snow grew deeper, isolating the valley from the world, the possibility of them returning within two weeks grew distant. They weren't coming and neither was Glorfindel. The Lord of Imladris retired troubled that only danger could have detained the patrol on the other side of the mountains after the March Warden had promised to return, only to be disturbed by the dream before the dawn.

Beyond the curtain shielding the balcony door was the view of Rivendale. Elrond moved aside the velour and peered into the nothingness beyond. The wind whipped the valley far too wildly to reach out to it and question what it saw in the far corners of his land. He sensed that Rivendale lay in predawn slumber, secured from the storm by his warning. The shutters were tightly closed. Extra firewood stacked in hearths, food stashed away.

The feeling of a bare foot stepping off the carpet onto the marble floor awakened an old memory. Nothing had changed in the passage of time, in the solitary contemplation of the vast beyond ever since he was a child who waited for his father to come home on lonely winter nights.

Earendil sailed distant seas weeks and months to come, following the calling in his heart to seek redemption for the elda. Each voyage to find the sacred passage back to Valinor beckoned him farther away from home. In vain Elwing stood each day on the cliff that oversaw the sea, waiting for the white sails to appear among the blue waves.

But, Elrond knew when to wait. Sometimes, he saw the images of a ship and of his father standing proud before the helm, guided to shore by the light of Silmaril. Tonight, the six year old intended to wait. He only pretended to sleep when his mother tiptoed into the room and kissed her sons' cheeks. Her dress rustled over to Elros' bed and then to his. When her footsteps died down, Elrond climbed off the bed barefoot and snuck towards the window that faced the sea.

A red, velvet armchair stood with its back towards the glassy eye into the world. The teddy bear, ever dragged by the paw, slipped from his grasp and landed on the floor with a soft plop as he tried to scale the high seat. Elrond returned for his companion and with persistence given only to younger children climbed up again.

Elros hadn't awakened from this minor disturbance. He was curled up on his side, softly breathing through the stubbed nose. Elrond let him sleep, although their bond was deep, allowing the twins to share nearly everything. Elros would rub his eyes sleepily and doze off, unable to grasp the inexplicit amount of time needed for the Vingilot to float into harbour with the light shining on its bow. His brother was different. He lived spontaneously in the present. He shouted in joy, racing the pebbles whenever the lean figure of their father scaled the path towards their home and cried when Earendil was leaving, only to carelessly chase the butterflies the next day as the features of the rarely seen parent quickly faded from his mind. It wasn't so for Elrond. The memories lingered. To him the flow of time had a contingency his twin couldn't understand. The time was as vast as the sea in the depths of which his father would come and go. Thus, Elrond chose the teddy bear to keep him company in the midnight vigil. The toy was seated on the windowsill where it looked outside with its black, button eyes, joined by the youngster who placed his chin on top of the armchair and waited, unwavering even when sleep called out to him.

His mother wasn't sleeping either. One floor below, she stood on the veranda, praying for her husband to come home. Elrond never asked to wait with her. His mother was with him and Elros, but also far away with his father, and sometimes her mind turned dark whenever the glowing jewel pulled her into its magic depths. Elwing's thoughts were distant even when she looked at her sons. Elrond felt sorry for his mother for he had Elros, but she was so alone. Quietly, he also prayed to the Valar. For if only his father would come home, he would see her laugh again.

And then, as answer to his pleading to break the isolation, the amber light appeared like a tiny star.

Elrond blinked. These were no memories. A chain of lights was moving across the bridge from the mountains.

A candleholder fell, inadvertently knocked down by the long sleeve as Elrond picked up the bell to alert the servants. A few of them sluggishly ventured into the corridor, confused and ruffled as he rushed past them with brisk orders, having already thrown on a grey robe and ran a brush several times through the dark hair.

He followed a draft that came from the entrance hall, anxious for an explanation why the patrol hadn't retired to the barracks. A gust of wind threw the majestic stillness of the resting home into disarray. Even the entrance statues recoiled from the waltzing snowflakes bursting in along with one of the valley's greatest Lords. With the golden hair dishevelled, Glorfindel looked very much in his element, coming in with the storm. The mirth in his bright eyes was undiminished as if the trek through the mountains had been a fine joke.

"Welcome home, my friend," Elrond greeted him. The anxiety that had a tight fist closed around his heart retreated for Glorfindel would not have looked so had the danger claimed another life.

"It's good to be home."

"You brought strangers to the valley."

Elrond gestured towards a middle aged man who accompanied the Lord. Much unlike Glorfindel who carelessly dismissed a mantle of snow trailing behind him with the ease of the one who entered his own home where his arrival had been eagerly anticipated, the edain attempted to brush off most of the snow at the doorstep before catching up to his representative.

"Strangers who fought the same enemy as us, Lord Elrond," Glorfindel responded, acknowledging the man. "Allow me to present Garan."

The man inclined his head politely, awaiting either a standard welcome or to be questioned on his reasons for entering the valley. He was guarded in unfamiliar surroundings, but Elrond sensed no hostility as he cast an evaluating glance at the entrance hall. The edain held himself well. His manners, however, didn't extend to hiding great annoyance at the disturbance caused by a woman flying up the steps. She scaled the distance with desperation, doing her best to keep a long skirt, trice as heavy under the clumps of snow stuck to the hem, from tripping her up, slipped on the melting puddle and before anyone reacted to steady her, ended up right in front of the Lord of Imladris. Her voice was husky as if she had been speaking for many hours out in the cold.

"Forgive this interruption, but a few of our men are wounded. One of them may die should he not be taken out of the cold and treated soon."

Garan threw a wrathful glare at the companion who embarrassed him. Glorfindel didn't hide a grin with the carelessness of the frequent offender who agreed with the formalities only under the special circumstances and in moderate amounts. Elrond frowned for the times were too dangerous to let the strangers into the Last Homely House before he had a chance to evaluate their intentions. However, the March Warden deserved his trust. Glorfindel would not have brought an enemy onto the doorstep of the elven realm.

"Your men will find rest and healing in these walls," Lord Elrond allowed the edain entry.

"With your permission, I will have the sentries take the wounded to the healing hall. That should be faster than alerting the healing staff," Glorfindel offered already disappearing outside closely follow by the woman.

"I must apologize for Erulien," the edain addressed the valley's Lord. "She has adapted a poor habit of interrupting, but never over trivialities. I came to value her advice."

"There is certain wisdom in her actions I cannot fault her for. Dangerous times wane hospitality and spread bitterness across the land. When strangers come to our doorstep we no longer ask how we can help. There are weapons placed between us rather than a welcoming hand being offered."

"The more valuable your willingness to open your home to us becomes. You have my lasting gratitude for the assistance. I have no desire to lose my companions. Erulien is an accomplished healer. Atamir must be very ill indeed if she claims that he needs help at once."

"How did he come to sustain the injuries? Lord Glorfindel tells me you fought our enemy," Elrond asked, mildly intrigued not just by the story but also by the praise. That was a bold claim indeed at the heart of one of the most accomplished healing houses in Middle Earth. It was unlikely that a fabled healer would accompany common traders, but in all fairness, great number of the remedies came from remote villages and self-taught healers.

"The wargs have followed our trail from Mirkwood. We fought them when your patrol came to our aid. However, Atamir came down with illness after an accident when we've been crossing the river. One of the horses fell through the ice and he followed it into the water to lead it out."

"That is an honourable deed."

The Lord of Imladris missed not a word, but his attention wavered towards the sentries bringing in the wounded and came to a halt on the woman at last pushing back the hood. It had been impossible to tell even the eye colour because the folds came low onto her forehead and the material had been pulled over her nose and mouth against the storm. He noticed a pointed ear tip as she brushed brown hair away from her face. The name had stricken him as unusual for an edain, but he had not expected that an elf would be travelling in the company of men. She claimed that someone's life was in danger. The healer in him wavered to help and the host wanted to death under his roof. Nonetheless, leaving Garan would have been inappropriate.

The choice was made for him by Erestor coming into the hall. The councillor retreated out of the sentries' way, ruffled and eyeing the trail of snow clumps on the floor in apparent distaste. He tracked more pronounced mess to the elleth whose ripped cape and heavy layers of slush on the hem served little to appease him as she passed only two steps apart. Elrond felt a pang of embarrassment at his subordinate's reaction, hoping the distaste went unseen by the elleth, but notice she did, suddenly straightening up in a purely Silvan manner and catching Erestors' gaze.

"I'm sorry for dirtying your floor. It is not my usual habit to leave a mess. Given the circumstances, I thought a man's life was more important than a few smudges on the carpet."

The councillor hardly batted an eyelash, but Elrond read the willingness on his face to put this disrespectful newcomer back in her place. Erestor rarely approved of the Mirkwood delegations that always held themselves with an overbearing pride, righteously looking down their nose at everyone even when they were in the wrong. 'Good manners do not abandon those who have them even during the emergencies,' he seemed to say.

"Erestor!" The Lord of Imladris summoned the councillor before a sharp retort found its target.

The elf obeyed. Turning his back on the elleth like she was of no more consequence and disdainfully avoiding the puddles, the councillor positioned himself by Elrond's right arm. He met Garan with a professional detachment, although a mute question flickered in his dark eyes at the faint shadow of displeasure in his Lord's official tone.

"Please see to our guests' accommodations."

The councillor inclined his head in acceptance as the Lord of Imladris departed with the short words spoken to their guest, "I leave you in Erestor's care."

Garan mirrored the councillor's action as the elf bowed to the retreating figure. The elf had worn no circlet, nor finery items that marked his status. Yet, even the paintings appeared to defer to him as the unmistakable ruler of the great elven city. Not for the first time Garan became assaulted by the doubts whether he should have brought the caravan to the realm of someone this powerful. There was no way to undo their path, just to have faith that their trust in Erulien had not been misplaced.


End file.
